


Those Who Make History

by zuzeca



Series: Mikaela/Scorponok Partners AU [2]
Category: Transformers (Bay Movies), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Gen, Hatchlings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-12
Updated: 2012-10-12
Packaged: 2017-11-16 03:36:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/535043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zuzeca/pseuds/zuzeca
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mikaela and Scorponok discover something unexpected during their travels. Implied Mikaela/Scorponok. Post-DOTM.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Those Who Make History

**Author's Note:**

  * For [femme4jack](https://archiveofourown.org/users/femme4jack/gifts).



> Just a short piece of fluff based upon my fic, [A Place Without Expectation](http://archiveofourown.org/works/519420). Written for [femme4jack](http://archiveofourown.org/users/femme4jack).
> 
> **Disclaimer:** All characters are property of their respective copyright holders. I am making no profit from this work of fiction.

Despite the inherent complications that come with having a partner who also serves as a mode of transport, there are certain perks to riding a living motorcycle, namely that one is freed from watching the road.

The sky is a clear blue wash, riddled with white clouds the like of which she hasn’t seen outside a summer storm, and though the constant vibration has numbed her legs, there’s a kind of harsh beauty to the scrubland around them. She flexes her hands around the grips, provoking a pleased rumble from beneath her, and tips her head back to watch the passing sky as Scorponok navigates the uneven veldt.

They’re heading west, making for the relative cool of the coast without regard for roads or pavement, along a more direct path than most manmade vehicles can manage, allowing the wind to blow them towards their destination. _“Wind-Hoek,”_ the old Boer had called it, _“A place where you can wash away your troubles, eh bokkie?_ She doesn’t have the same unwavering faith in the healing properties of water spat forth by this dry land, but after days in the desert the prospect of a bath is appealing.

A twitch of movement beneath her brings her attention down and she realizes Scorponok is deviating from their path, curving north in a wide arc which sends them deeper into scrubland. Curious but not alarmed, her silent companion may follow his own path but he hasn’t yet led her into danger, she taps against the grips lightly, “What’s going on, buddy?”

She doesn’t expect an answer and he doesn’t offer one, but a gentle ripple against the inside of her thigh, like the shiver of a horse’s flank, conveys his request.

_Trust me._

They continue north, several miles, until scrub begins to thicken into proper savannah, grass rising to brush her knees as they cut out a serpentine path. She doesn’t need to hear the low hum of his scanners to know what he’s doing; whatever his current role Scorponok was built as a tracker.

A small herd of wildebeest appears on the horizon, one of many which will congeal into an endless dark mass which will carpet this land come the rains, and Scorponok rolls to a halt.

The veldt appears empty, but she takes the hint and dismounts anyway. Her knees try to buckle and she leans forward, gripping her thighs until her legs obey and she takes a few bow-legged steps.

Once she’s clear of him, he rolls forward a bit and his body unfolds, parts whirling and clicking into the orientation in which she first knew him. Pedipalps flex, his tail arches up over his back and she wonders for a moment if he ever gets stiff before he sets off towards the north, grass just brushing against the sternites of his belly.

She starts to follow, but that huge tail flicks in her direction, telson curling with intent.

_Stay here._

She offers him the courtesy of a few hundred feet before following anyway.

 

She tries to approach several times in the course of their long trek, but he’s evidently serious about the ‘stay back if not away’ command and so she finds herself lingering on the crest of a small hill as her companion circles the shallow dip below.

Seeming satisfied with his position, he halts and plants his walking legs firmly. His pedipalps lower, tail flattens along his back and he lets out a high chirring sound.

For several moments the grassland is silent and then, a quiver, a rattle…and a small mechanical head pops out of the brush.

She can’t hold back a gasp. She’d heard rumors; Ratchet might have mentioned something at one time or another, but it was one thing to hear and quite another to see.

At the sound of her indrawn breath, the hatchling’s gaze flicks in her direction and it vanishes.

Scorponok repeats the chirr, dropping the pitch several octaves and presses his pedipalps close to the ground.

More silence and then, slowly, slowly the tiny creature emerges.

It’s a peculiar little beast, all disproportionate limbs and wide bulging optics. It toddles forward, upright but unsteady, creeping towards Scorponok as the latter continues to chirp encouragement. Hesitant, it reaches up to grasp a claw and the larger mech hefts it into the air, supporting it as it awkwardly scrabbles its way along the length of one pedipalp until it’s perched on the broad expanse of his back.

Once there, it proceeds to investigate the new surface for several minutes, buzzing and burbling to itself, before plunking down, limbs splayed wide. Tipping its head back, it lets out a high, musical note.

Silence, and then the grass around him comes alive.

A chill wriggles down her spine, half wonder at the impossibility of the sight and half instinctive fear at the utter strangeness of them. They surge in from all sides, converging on Scorponok, clicking and chirruping as they scramble to mount his back, merging into a single, writhing mass of metal limbs, gleaming in the baking sun.

At last the final hatchling is in place and Scorponok dips his tail over them, telson twisting and expanding in threat display.

_You are safe._

The mob quiets and he turns to face her, sagging slightly under the weight, and gestures with one palp, a motion he’s adopted from her.

_Come closer._

A panel of red optics focuses on her and though she can’t stop a shiver at the weight of their combined gaze, she trusts her partner.

The hatchlings click and shift as she approaches, little claws lifting in instinctive, defensive posture, but Scorponok croons, low and soothing. Shaking slightly, she stretches out her hand toward a small creature perched on the periphery of one tergite and pauses, fingers spread.

Optics whirl and shutter and then, slowly, wariness shifts to curiosity and it reaches for her.

Small hands latch around her fingers and she winces at the drag and prick of tiny claws, but then its grip relaxes and it chirrs. A smile tugs at her lips.

As the hatchling investigates the curve of her palm she turns her attention to her partner, “You know, you never mentioned anything about kids.”

His chelicerae click together and she could swear he’s looking at her innocently.

“Well, you might think we can raise a passel of bouncing baby robots out in the middle of nowhere, but I think we might be in a bit over our heads.” She tips her hat back to scan the skies, “I’m thinking we might need to call in the big guns, so to speak.”

He hunches slightly in resentment, but doesn’t protest and she softens, “Don’t worry, I won’t let them hurt you. Or them.”

She continues to allow the hatchling to toy with her fingers as she fishes in her pocket for the satellite phone buried there. It’s been over a year since she’s used it, but the number still leaps to her fingertips.

It rings for a long time, then finally goes to voicemail.

“Ratchet? I know you’re probably busy, but I’ve got a bit of a situation. Call me.”

She flips the phone shut and looks toward her partner and the hatchlings. They’re all utterly silent, watching her with palpable nervousness.

She sighs.

“Come on then, Mom, I’d like to find some shelter before dark.”

The chorus of squeaks and chirrups is pure music.


End file.
